gay day and blog lint

I have so many things in my head to share. Real thinking things. Ideas and shit. But random and fluffy things have been accumulating in my virtual navel and I must clear them out:

Gay Pride Parade
Best t-shirt spotted (black letters on white shirt, gay man with straw cowboy hat):
Cowfag
Message to trannies:
Girlfriends, buy some decent wigs. I've seen Barbies with more natural coifs.
My queer epiphenita:
I'm the Bacon in the Great Bacon Lettuce Tomato sandwich. I love bacon.
 
Irony
Is anyone else pissed off at Fate's little joke of taking out two ground-breaking comedians within one month of each other (May 29 and June 22)? Korman, Carlin: I hope you two are doing that foul-mouthed voodoo that you do, soooo well.

Visitors
The Finns were here. Our Finnish host daughter (from 10 years ago) and her boyfriend were spending their vacation in the US and sandwiched 5 days in Houston between New York and San Francisco. They were completely delightful and we had great fun. I've been cooking like my mother (meaning I've been cooking well and in ridiculous quantities. And making menu lists.) for over a week and I am a bit tuckered.

Note: Between Finland's corner on the vowel market and the Czech Republic's capture of most of the consonants, it's amazing that we have enough letters left to cobble together a language.

Hypocrisy
Hello, Liberals/Progressives? Stop doing the McCain is so old schtick. It is, in essence, no less of a bullshit prejudice than racism or sexism and he has provided ample fodder for you on the real issues. Really, enough. You lose your integrity with each comment.

[One exception to the ageism slam: The Rude Pundit. A man whose commitment to the egalitarian smear is so wide-ranging and profound, it borders on the holy edge of the profane. When you look up the definition of "nothing is sacred," it links to his site. O Rude One, carry on.]
 
Dusty Mecca?
How the hell did I miss this?

Rampant Lesbianism
Republican candidate for senator from Oklahoma, Tom Coburn
You know, Josh Burkeen is our rep down here in the southeast area. He lives in Colgate and travels out of Atoka. He was telling me lesbianism is so rampant in some of the schools in southeast Oklahoma that they’ll only let one girl go to the bathroom. Now think about it. Think about that issue. How is it that that’s happened to us?"

–Tom Coburn, 8/31/04

–Atrios (via dailykos.com)

All the lesbians I know are going to be pulling up stakes and heading north to Ponca City or OK City or DustyPoonanny City as soon as they close this window.

Inspiration
Sapphobless my dear friend Giuseppe for this holy-fucking gem:

Click on the image (careful!) to enlarge. Click here to go to fldsdress.com to peruse the homespun frocks. FLDS stands for Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Über Mormons. Guardians of female hymenity, pastel full-body armor, cheap casseroles and all things caucasian. These are the placenta-makers, my people. Reproducing at a rate that causes great papal shame. And while we're talking about conspiracy, don't think it's a coincidence that FLDS reads exactly like "fluids." That is right. Every sperm is sacred.

 

And not that I don't think those Monty Python guys are anything less than total fucking geniuses, but they're wrong about the Mormon's spilling their seed.

I swear on the life of my unborn triplets, Chastity, Modesty and Frigidity, I will make me a pastel full-length dress. And I will unlock the secret of extensions and give myself a Christian updo. Amen.

building little bully billy bigots one panel at a time

Look at little Billy's face in panel two. Is it even possible that there's a child out there who gets this torqued-out about wearing clothes made in other countries? (Any child not poisoned by xenophobic parents, that is.) Or even grasps that clothes are not made by the clothing elves living in the department store basement?

Aside from the fact that this comic strip is inane and the very definition of saccharine, what kind of message does this send?

Free market exchange for us but not all you brown fuckers (Now, Billy, you're still not allowed to say the brown word), I mean, brown kids. Or: We can dress up like you on world cultures day at elementary school, learn your folk dances and the bleached version of your history but we're not buying your shit...unless, of course, it's made in our goddamn sweatshops.

With a sweet little nod to knittin' grandma.

Family Circus sucks.

now that was a nap

That was a nap that makes the other naps whistle a low, "da-a-a-mn."

That was a nap of stygian oblivion. A state of perfect matte blackness from which you awaken unsure whether tomorrow has eclipsed today.

That was a nap that bulleted past with all but its wingtips tucked and obliterated your little sparrow of consciousness in such a blinding explosion of feathers and talons that you didn't have time to whimper.

That, my friends, was a nap.

Damn.


[update: I submitted this entry to Six Sentences and they accepted and posted it here.]

artemia salina is way too fancy a name

Just read a great post about school fair goldfish at The QC Report.

It reminded me of another watery pet story filed under: Unwanted Pets That Wouldn't Die. My son had sea monkeys. I can't remember who bought them for him, probably someone with a score to settle with me. And obviously, whoever marketed brine shrimp as pets was a certifiable mad genius.

I, however, found it difficult to distinguish sea monkeys from flotsam in murky water and was not impressed. And they lasted forever...even when my son stopped feeding them and I, um, forgot to remind him. For a month. Jesus, they cannibalized their young or ate their dead or something.

But I didn't kill them all on purpose, no matter what my family thinks. I was cleaning off the countertop while my children were at their dad's house and the cloudy little shrimp tower fell over. Generations of sea monkeys rode a scum tidal wave over the kitchen floor, racing beneath appliances to die and decompose.

While I mopped up the carcasses of innumerable smelly shrimp, Barbara scoured a half-dozen toy stores and found another batch of dried monkey powder that we reconstituted and encouraged to speed grow (they didn't) so our son wouldn't know that all of his adult sea pals had been replaced (he didn't).

For years after this mishap I felt the weight of massacred sea monkeys on my soul. Every time I swerved to avoid a squirrel in the road, I imagined a few dead sea monkey black marks erased from the tally. Years later, when I felt that my pet-related crimes had been atoned for in full, I was finally free to annihilate all those animals too unevolved to factor automobiles into their genetic code.

Oh, calm down. I hate washing dead critter bits off my car.

not often

Not ofet6n often do I blog drunk.

Because I can't speel spell...or rather, I can't type fir for shit.

But goddammit, am I relaxed.

Hey–did I mention that for my 50th birthday (FIFTIETH, you heard me) I had a choice? Yes, I did. (First, I puled about not spending money and Barbara said, Let me remind you about how this works: you suggest, I decide. I love it when she goes all unexpectedly butch on me.) I really wanted a new computer. One of those MacBook Pro things. You can navigate the Space Station with those fuckers. And oh my god, do we need countertops. I also had my heart set on a stand-alone mixer. Like those gorgeous Kitchen Aid professional mixers. They come in red and will whip chunks of mesquite into a fine paste. BUT, our friends in Germany said, Come visit...stay with us, we're 1 hour from the border of France.

It's a no brainer, people (At this point in time, I am more than qualified to discuss decisions made while using very little of one's brain), new countertops and computers be damned, I'm going to celebrate my 50th in France. Paris, if possible.

I'm goign going to bed now.

Good fight, and good fuck.

congratulations (again) to phyllis & del

Cheers for California queers! Particularly this lovely old couple, Del Martin and Phyllis Lyons, who tied the knot in California yesterday:

Phyllis & Del, then. | Del & Phyllis, now.

Together for over 50 years these two San Francisco activists were pivotal in the fight for lesbian visibility and GLBT rights. The word hero has been handed out like elementary school honorable mentions and I wish I had a better word. But in every cliché-free sense, these brave women are heroes.

story via dailykos

five years

I overheard my coworkers begin their morning chatter and reached for my headphones just as one of them exclaimed, I haven't read a book in ages. The other responded, It's been five years since I read a book!

A moment of brain-recoiling horror. I can't imagine not reading books. All the time. Sometimes several at a time. And real books, fucking snob that I am. Books that have vocabulary and plot. Books that challenge my viewpoint and pull me into another world.

But, I thought (trying to regain my equilibrium) there are things that I haven't done in five years that might horrify someone else. Let me think. Five years since my last manicure? Okay. Maybe something more substantial...five years since I went to a concert?...since I've worn heels and pantyhose? Okay, that isn't really substantial. Five years since I danced? That actually is a tragedy...except I can't dance. Five years since I've bought a car...since I've gone hiking or camping (I'm stifling my applause). Five years since I've ridden a bicycle. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Five years since I've flown a kite or gone skiing or used differential calculus.

Now I'm exhausted. But none of these things seems as critical, or mutually exclusive to giving your brain regular stimulation. Of course, we always see as most important the things we like and are good at...

Aw, bullshit: people, your brains are going to mush and you need to feed them something decent. Not the Weekly World News. Not romance novels. Or not just the Weekly World News and romance novels.

post postmortem post

I'd been peeling back the layers of accumulati adorning my desk when I rediscovered my "notes" from the recent funeral I attended. Approaching any ceremony or meeting without a writing implement and paper sends me into a wild-eyed panic. Swaths of exposed skin have been penned upon in emergencies. Praise Zeus funerals provide programs...

One of the peculiarities of religion is the need to speculate about god's motives. You know, god took the baby because she was too good for this world. Gramps died because The Lord decided to ended his suffering. (Presumably The Lord thought 10 years of exponential dementia and 3 years of grueling chemotherapy were just about right.) ANYWAY, at my aunt's funeral there were several references to the Virgin Mother taking her on Mother's Day. As if that was the best way to honor her. At her party. On the other side. I'm so perplexed by all this. I find myself daydreaming that the priest dies and arrives at deathland only to realize, "Shit. I was totally talking outta my ass."

Most religions are power-sucks–even if it is the comfort being sought–because they hammer home the concept that you can't do things without god's help. You can't overcome your weakness, you can't accomplish your goals, you can't face death, you can't get to heaven, etc. ad nauseum without following some prescribed behavior. Without faith. Without obedience. Without baptism and tithing. Which seems counterintuitive, if you buy this divine spiritual goal of attaining perfection. Shouldn't we be taught that we have incredible innate powers? Not reaching inward to tap into these fallow abilities should be a sin. On that note, epiphenita's latest set of commandments:

1. Thou shalt use thy common sense.
2. Thou shalt stop whining or I shall cast out all thy big white teeth.
3. Thou shalt stop pestering me (god) about high school sports.
4. Thou shalt figure it out. Make thine list and use thy holy gray matter.
5. Thou shalt think about tomorrow before using all thy silver pieces for new togas and sandals today.
6. Thou shalt use thy signal or suffer the wrath of my vengeful high priestess of traffic flow.

10-schmen. Get these six right and then maybe, you get the next four. Back to the service...

The sweet little incense-swinging priest was likable enough. He told the congregation that it was okay to mourn. He referenced Jesus' sorrow at the death of his good friend Lazarus as proof that grief was an approved response to death. I don't remember the details of this part of the bible story–but the priest should know, right? So I guess JC was pretty sad.

But not so sad that he resisted RAISING LAZARUS FROM THE DEAD. He responded to death by using his superpowers. Come on! That's cheating and absolutely no comfort to us resurrection-challenged mortals.

Okay. Those are all my notes. That I can share. Suffice it to say that as a religious service/tribute to my aunt, it didn't suck. These people knew her and her family. That's good. But as a religious service addressing the mysteries of death...pretty much what I expected. Lots of assurance about things of which nobody is sure. Nice stained glass, though.